


Here There Be Monsters

by songlin



Series: What Comes Undone [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Shower Sex, Smut, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every human being’s primary and secondary erogenous zones were like a blueprint spread across their body, unique to them alone. Sherlock liked to chart them in her mind, moving into the dark uncharted corners of the map, into the zones marked “Here There Be Monsters.” There was so much to learn and explore and possess, and she wanted to drink it all in and keep it for herself. (Works as a stand-alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here There Be Monsters

Sherlock hadn’t been lying when she’d said boys weren’t really her area. She hadn’t slept with a man since around Victoria Trevor. She preferred sexual experiences that involved a really thorough exploration of the human body. After all, the reason she indulged in the first place was to give her mind something to do. Drugs made it better with men; everything seemed more interesting. But overall, it was usually so _dull_ with men. A bit of foreplay, a bit of thrusting and then it was over, whereas women were so endlessly fascinating. There was so much to do to get results.

Luckily for them both, John Watson was not any man.

He was both exceptionally sensitive and extraordinarily creative. Before John, Sherlock had no idea that someone could bring her to orgasm by tweaking and nipping and sucking at her nipples just so for hours. Before John, Sherlock had never realized how hard she could make a man by whispering in his ear, never touching him at all, describing exactly how to bring her just to the precipice and keep her there for ages if he wanted and then letting him do just that.

Every human being’s primary and secondary erogenous zones were like a blueprint spread across their body, unique to them alone. Sherlock liked to chart them in her mind and then move into the dark uncharted corners of the map, exploring the zones marked “Here There Be Monsters.” John Watson’s secondary erogenous zones as Sherlock had found were, in order: inner thighs, lips, nipples, ears, neck, wrists, fingers (and the webbing between them), lower back, backs of ankles, backs of knees, knees, et cetera. Sherlock had categorized her own, and enjoyed where they matched up (nipples, backs of thighs, underside of breasts, ears, throat, curve of back just over kidneys, cleavage, fingers, lips, calves, et cetera). She used this knowledge like a Navajo code-breaker, unlocking not secrets but sighs and breathy moans and needy cries of _“Sherlock.”_

Even better than the places were the thoughts, the kinks and little details that got under John Watson’s skin and make him _want_. There was so much to learn and explore and possess, and she wanted to drink it all in and keep it for herself.

Successes: Letting John do laundry. Describing arousal at thought of wearing underwear John had touched and folded with those lovely surgeon’s hands. Oversized shirt of John’s and nothing else, especially when paired with “bedhead.” Clothing disparities of any kind, really. Ending scolding about something unimportant by pushing John against something (walls are good) and snogging him thoroughly. John watching me touch myself. Watching John touch himself. Displaying bite marks John leaves openly (he blushes, but his pupils also dilate and if I touch the marks, he glances at them 67% more frequently). Allowing John to interrupt a fit of tedium by performing very innovative cunnilingus. Letting John wash my hair.

Sherlock closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the couch at the last thought. That had been a good shower. John’s fingers working shampoo through her hair, massaging her scalp, brushing back dark curly tendrils from her forehead...

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“You haven’t any plans for the rest of the day.” She said this as a statement of fact, not a question.

“You’re right, I haven’t.” There was a rustle of newspaper from John’s position in the armchair.

“I’m taking a shower. Coming?” Sherlock rolled off the couch and started up the stairs, shedding clothes as she went.

_And he’ll drop the paper in five...four..._

“Not your concubine, Sherlock,” John called after her.

Sherlock grinned when she heard the newspaper fold.

She knew she had won when the door to the bathroom opened while she was soaping up her legs and John started shedding clothes on the bathroom floor. “We’re going to drive our water bill through the roof.”

“We’ve the means.”

“You’ve the means,” said John, sliding the shower curtain aside and stepping in.

Sherlock handed him the bottle of shampoo and turned her back. John poured a dollop into his hand and started rubbing it through her hair. She closed her eyes and hummed contentedly.

“Never understood why you keep it long,” John said, sounding trancelike. “I’d think it would be in your way.”

“When it’s short it’s worse,” Sherlock said dreamily. “Can’t tie it back. And apparently I look less ‘trustworthy’ with short hair.”

“Who said that?” He lathered up the ends of her hair down between her scapulae.

“Don’t remember. Deleted it. Used to wear it short, you know. Better for getting girls. But apparently short-haired women are threatening. Made the work difficult.”

Sherlock could practically smell John frowning. “I don’t know. I’ve dated a few.”

“You’re also not a heterosexual male with typical preferences.”

He laughed. Sherlock felt it against the back of her spine and shivered. “True, that.”

She turned round, eyes still closed, tipped her head back into the spray of water, and combed her fingers through, squeezing out the suds. John rested his hands on her waist.

“You’ve got bruises around your hipbones.”

“Yes. From Monday night.”

“Ah. Monday.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, gently shaking her hair out and opening her eyes.

John was staring at the bruises. Sherlock studied his expression carefully. Was he feeling guilty? She understood some men felt guilty for accidentally bruising their partners in bed, but then she remembered his reaction to the bite marks.

“I’m still a bit sore from Monday,” she said mildly. “I also sustained a twelve-percent loss in my vocal range and a seven-percent loss in volume.”

John made an inarticulate noise in his throat.

“Bit unfair, the way these friendly fire injuries have been distributed thus far. It’s nothing but fair play if I leave a few on you, now, isn’t it John?”

There was that noise again. Sherlock grinned, grabbed him by the throat and slammed him up against the wall hard enough to make the shower head sputter.

“Yes,” John gasped, “yes _please_.”

Sherlock smashed her lips into his. It was a punishing sort of kiss, closer to cannibalism than romance. Her fingers still tightly against John’s throat, she jerked his head to the side and bit him sharply on the side of his jaw. He hissed and pulled her hips into his.

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “Awfully excited, aren’t we?”

She tightened her fingers around his throat. He gasped, struggling just a bit to draw in air. She nipped at his earlobe.

“Now,” she whispered, relishing John’s shiver, “you are going to fight me, and if you can get me well and pinned, then _and only then_ will you fuck me until I can barely walk afterward.”

John grinned.

So did Sherlock.

John made short work of her, though she put up a fair fight. By the time he had her bent over, clinging to the faucet of the tub so she didn’t slip, the bruises, bites and scratch marks were well-distributed.

“You knew I’d win,” John said breathlessly as he thrust into her so hard her eyelids fluttered and she had to scrabble at the faucet to catch her balance again.

“Naturally,” she panted. “One...oh, yes, _yes_...does not challenge an ex-soldier to a fight and expect to win. Then again...”

“You’d never.”

“Next time.”

By the time they got out of the shower the water was ice cold. Sherlock perched on the edge of the sink toweling her hair while she watched John getting dressed with a hawk’s gaze.

“I think,” she said at last, as John pulled his jumper over his head, “given a slight handicap, I could easily take you down. Partially restrained, perhaps.”

He cleared his throat. “We’ll see.”

“Next time?”

John smiled. “Next time.” He patted her back. “Come on. Get down. I’m making lunch and you’re eating.”

He succeeded in getting her to eat nearly twice as much as she normally would. Later they realized that was because it had been four weeks since her last period, but hindsight is always 20/20 and Sherlock never had been particularly observant when it came to her body.


End file.
